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COPYRIGHTED, 

1876, 

By J. L. SI BOL K. 


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DEDICATED 

TO 

EMILIE V. COOKE. 


























Dutter-cup with golden hair 
N odding, blithe and debonair; 
Daisy with the happy face 
Looking up from every place; 
Clover with the tempting lips 
Wh ere the bee his honey sips, 
Tell me, who is sweetest, who? 
V iolet, with eyes of blue. 




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ere the sear leaves brownest are 


ines the bright Arbutus star 


Waits the 


the bonny sturdy Heather 


raves all changing of the weather 


them all for 


of blue 









u the blue Forget-me-nots 
Blooming thick in sunny spots 
o the timid berries laid 


In the shadow of the glade! 
O the grasses tall and swei 


pringing up around our feet! 


in sun, and shade, and dew 


the Violet’s 

























the Honeysuckle grows 


t is sweeter than it knows 


the Mountain-pink is fair 


nd the Wild-rose hides with care 


An her thorns, and beckons still 


Tor the vanished Daffodil 
A nd I wait and beck for y 


lover true 


ome 


V iolet, with 



















































OM INN 














































































What are we clood for? 

Jes’ to teep 
Rain from de mosses 
When dey sleep. 

What else doocl for? 

Lem’ me see! 

Fool boys, sometimes, 
’Tween you an’ me. 

i 

H ow old are we ? 

Don’t know quite, 
Reckon we tame in 
A shower, last night. 

Where are we goin’ to? 

O my soul! — 

Wif all de flowers, in 
A Gate Rig Hole. 










































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“MY FLOWERS.” 

They are so very dear to me:— 

My Pansy first,—for memory. 

I hold this best, because I trace 
Upon its happy, human face 
A thought of Somebody, most dear. 

And when I put a Pansy near 
My lips, you’ll know I’m thinking of 
The far off Somebody 1 love. 

Sweet Apple-blossom! Little one, 
Waiting to tell of Winter done. 

The first thing with a Summer face, 

That comes, — heart-full of love, to grace 
The barren boughs! Who would not be 
A messenger of hope, like thee? 

Who would not gladly fall and die, 

To have ripe fruit come, by and by? 

















Here is a branch of Brier-rose; — 

The quaintest, fondest thing that grows. 
There’s something in its fragrance wild 
That makes me once again a child, 

And wafts me back to a dear friend 
And a dear promise at an end: — 

O brave, true heart! we stoop to lay 
The Sweet-brier on thy grave to day. 

And here with thoughtful hand, I take 
My Heliotrope: and for his sake 
Who chose it for my flower, I let 
It whisper to my thoughts, ‘‘Regret.’’ 
For he, who gave me many a spray 
Of blossoms sweet, has passed away 
From earthly things, and left to me 
Only this flower of constancy. 












































A friendship, warm and bright and brief, 

Is painted on the Autumn leaf. 

In my bouquet I give it place, 

Because there is a voice, — a face, — 

It brings back, and a maple-wood 
Where two Octobers, in gay mood, 

We strolled; nor thought the Fall to reach 
When each is stranger unto each. 

Is it a memory or a dream 

That ever pictures the bright gleam 

Of Holly-berries in the snow, 

With happy scenes of long ago? 

O “Holly Hall!’’ Forsaken place, 

That in our lives has left no trace, 

Save, as the swift years gather snow, 

We look for berries, as they go. 








































































I walk through sunny fields of clover, 

And while the singing birds fly over, 

I pluck the sweetest bloom of all. 

There’s Some one — whom I love to call 
‘‘My Clover,’’ she is fresh and sweet; 
You’ll know her, if you chance to meet, 

By just that, pleasant wholesome air, 

And call her type the fittest there. 

Fresh Bitter-sweet! and instantly 
Grave, earnest eyes look full at me. 

A friend worth loving — strong and true 
And oh! so tender-hearted, too! 

Less of her own than others’ need 
She thinks, and into generous deed 
Each kind thought blossoms — like this vine, 
That gives its red to cheer the pine. 












’Twas Spring-time when the Baby died, 

And over all the country-side 
Young flowers sprang in joyous groups; 
And through the air went golden troops 
Of butterflies. But with eyes dim 
1 said, ‘‘The Lily ’s best for him.’’ 

And there upon his bosom lay 
The lily-of-the-valley spray. 

What shall I say my Violet, 

Of thee? I tell my heart, ‘‘Forget 
The many words, the many faces 
They bring me back from long lost places.’’ 
And now, in lonelier days, I weep, 

So many violet thoughts to keep. 

Ah! each flower can some love recall; 

But Violets will speak of all. 
































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“HARVEST OF 1876.’’ 


The summer lilies, white and pink and gold, 

Sprang up exultant from the pregnant mould. 

A hundred years had Freedom sown his seed. 

And from this harvest, asked a hundred fold. 

Turn up our furrows, O great plow ot Thought, 

And drop, O Knowledge, all the seeds you’ve brought; 
While Genius scarcely waits the breaking sod 
To show her eyes the mines with treasures fraught. 

Across our fields the World hath come to-day, 

And to all men we freely give away 

The bread of welcome. Manna from the cloud 

Were not more plenty: — Brothers eat and stay. 

But Autumn, with her garnered fruits, hath passed, 
And other worlds have sought their homes at last. 

And we are resting, with their laurel wreaths 
Upon our shores in parting tribute cast. 














Of all the glad seasons, let this Christmas be 
Gladdest, with loyal generosity. 

A Nation’s hopes have ripened into deeds, 
And all her gifts are lavished gloriously. 

\ 

O crowned triumph! O Centennial Year! 


We 

lay away 

thy sheav 

es without a 

tear; 

For 

ours has 

been rich 

harvesting, 

and w i 

H a v 

e seen th 

e perfect 

grain within 

the ea 









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